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Theoretical
physics is a highly abstract discipline. Mathematics is its language,
logic its method. But theoretical physicists are human, too, and
our brains tire from the effort of thinking about things that hover
on the edge of inconceivability. And so, to relieve the mental strain,
we sometimes attach concrete images to the technical terms and mathematical
symbols of our craft. Thus I think of electrons as fuzzy yellow
tennis balls, of trajectories of photons as undulating blue lines,
and of quarks as colored glass marbles. Our images, like those of
painters, are derived from the simple things we see in the world
around us. That isn't really surprising, for physics, like all creative
endeavors, engages the imagination, and the word "imagination" comes,
not by coincidence, from "image."
Physics
conjures up images and, conversely, images stimulate thoughts about
physics. The paintings of Ronald Davis are especially inviting to
this kind of meditation because they display just the right blend
of realism and abstraction. In particular, it seems to me that Davis's
work can be seen as a metaphor for the way theoretical physicists
think about the world. To learn about the workings of a physicist's
mind, without having to delve into the actual theories, we can do
no better than to turn to Albert Einstein, who recorded some of
his profound insights into his own mental processes. Davis's work,
through its imagery, helps us to get a glimpse of the great physicist's
thinking. At the same time, Einstein's way of seeing the world illuminates
Davis's art.
Einstein
was primarily a visual thinker. He rarely thought in words at all,
and mathematics did not come naturally to him-he used it only to
the extent that he had to. The special theory of relativity, for
example, is couched in terms of high school algebra, while the later,
much more sophisticated theory of gravity requires a formalism that
took Einstein ten arduous years to learn. The basic objects of his
thinking were visual images. Gerald Holton, in an essay entitled
"On Trying to Understand Scientific Genius," quotes Einstein's own
description of his mental activity in words that apply equally well
to Davis's work:
What,
precisely, is "thinking"? When, upon reception of sense-impressions,
memorypictures emerge, that is not yet "thinking." And when such
pictures form a series, each member of which calls forth another,
this too is not yet "thinking." But when a certain image turns
up in many such series, then-precisely by its return-it becomes
an ordering element--a concept.... It is by no means necessary
that a concept must be connected with a recognizable sign or word....
All our thinking is of this nature of a free play with concepts.
And
elsewhere Einstein elaborates:
This
combinatory play seems to be the essential feature of productive
thought before there is any connection with logical construction
in words or other kinds of signs (such as mathematical symbols)
which can be communicated to others. The elements mentioned above
are, in my case, of visual and some of muscular type. Conventional
words or other signs have to be sought for laboriously only in
a secondary stage, when the associative play is sufficiently established.
The
term "play" occurs often in Einstein's writings about the creative
process. He played with concepts the way a dog worries a bone and
the way Davis plays with the visual possibilities inherent in an
arch or a box. But for both Einstein and Davis play is serious.
The intensity with which Einstein juggled the same sparse set of
concepts--elativity, symmetry, continuity, atomicity--for an entire
lifetime is echoed in the singleminded concentration with which
Davis explores his own set of themes. This may be play, but the
approach is not playful. Davis and Einstein look at the world with
childlike, eyes, but they are the eyes of grave and deeply thoughtful
children.
This
play with concepts, for both men, is guided by a simple purpose:
to get it right. Einstein, when he formulated special relativity,
did not set out to revolutionize physics. All he had wanted to do
was reconcile a seemingly trivial inconsistency in classical physics.
As a teenager, he tried to imagine what he would see if he rode
along a beam of light at its own speed, and later he found out that
mechanics and optics gave different answers to the question. It
wasn't a very pressing problem but, as in everything else he did,
Einstein was deter mined to get it right. Davis, too, is concerned
with simple objects, and the seemingly inconsequential problems
they pose. Where do the lines meet? Is the shadow here a little
darker, or should it be lighter? How do the planes overlap? Are
they parallel, or not? These are questions that face all painters,
but because he concentrates on them more sharply, Davis has to answer
them more precisely And invariably he gets them right. Right, not
in the simplistic sense of verisimilitude, but by the more exacting
standards of artistic integrity. The cogency of Davis's work reminds
us of the ease with which Einstein's theory of 1905, with the famous
E = mc2, in spite of its strangeness, convinced the majority
of his colleagues that it must be right.
Sawtooth,
1970, 64 1/2 x 138 inches, polyester resin and fiberglass
Davis'
painted objects may be seen as metaphors for Einstein's images or
concepts. For the fiberglass pieces this relationship is straightforward.
As a child learning geometry, Einstein felt that "the objects with
which geometry deals seemed to be of no different type than the
objects of sensory perception, which can be seen and touched." Euclid's
constructions were, for Einstein, tangible objects. Yet they are
not simple objects that can be easily described in words. Like Davis's
objects, they are fine and subtle things in which solidity and palpability
compete with an essential ineffability. One can imagine Einstein,
as a boy, seeing the entire proof of the Pythagorean theorem appear
before his inward eye in the form of Davis's Sawtooth (1970).
It is the proof of the theorem, not merely the statement, that so
appears. The statement is a simple fact, easily verbalized and memorized.
The proof, on the other hand, is an intricate process that requires
active thinking: "First you draw this auxiliary triangle, and then
that one, and then you notice their connection In looking at Sawtooth,
your eye and brain are similarly compelled into action, comparing,
measuring, visualizing hidden spatial relationships, jumping from
three dimensions to two and back again and, finally, with a sigh
of satisfaction, concluding that it is right. Just like the Pythagorean
theorem.
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